


I buried him with mine own hands

by house0fstark (hellodestroya)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:31:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodestroya/pseuds/house0fstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Knight of Flowers says good bye to the King Who Should of Been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I buried him with mine own hands

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for a certain characters death in the second season. Cross posted at my tumblr, tonystarkhaven. No beta, just me. Enjoy!

The sun is too hot and it sets his skin afire, the wooden handle of the shovel raising blisters on his palms. His tunic clings to him, damp with sweat, and he stubbornly refuses to wipe the tears as they fall down his cheeks. Let them come, he thinks. He will have years to pretend he did not plead and wail and sob like a child the very moment they were alone. The body is wrapped in silk and fur, and he groans with the effort of flinging the dirt from the hole.

It is not a kingly burial, but he prepares it with his own hands, and he knows in his heart of hearts that this is what the King that should of been would of wanted. He thinks maybe, if he showed just one other person, he could be buried here too. He isn’t sure he wants to share this secret that was his, this secret place that belonged to them. There had been little that he could take but he had managed a handful of things he would never let Stannis or anyone else touch.

He does not look at the body if he can manage it. Even without looking, he can see it, and he quivers as he tries to breath and his tenuous control is stretched to its limits. Renly is dressed as if he were a king. Fine fabrics and silk and golden thread. He is perfumed, though not even the tonics and insence can keep nature from doing what it does. He is pale and cold and Loras Tyrell braces himself on the shovel as he let’s out a sob, hair clinging to his wet cheeks. No man should ever have to dig their lovers grave.

He leans against the post, blade deep in the earth. No man should ever have to but dig he does. He screamed at any who would try to take Renly from him, sent away those who would offer help. He is dirty and his whole body aches. His tunic that was once white and a pair of nondescript brown breeches will both be burned. They are too far gone to save and on what other occasion would he wear them?

If there had been anyone around, they may have commented on the strangeness of it. The Knight of Flowers, always so beautiful and charming, now sweaty and as covered in dirt as a low born stable boy; waist deep in a grave. Loras had to do it. No one else could. No one had loved Renly like he had loved him, no one had known Renly as Loras had known Renly. This is where he would be laid to rest and this belonged to them.

The pit seems complete and he climbs out, hands and knees pressing into the dirt and grass as he catches his breath. A light breeze wafts over him and he lifts his head, letting it cool his warm cheeks and sweaty brow. He stands and he can feel the grass, sun warmed beneath his toes as he walks to what remains of his great love. He kneels, though he does not touch his cloths. His hands are blackened from the dirt and he wipes them on his thighs and then on the grass.

Then, taking a few deep shuddering breaths, he leans over the body and pulls the linen off Renly’s face. He can ignore the smell, the smell of death beneath the spice and jasmine. He cannot ignore the fresh waves of grief that crash over him and he fights to contain himself, forces himself not to shake Renly’s body, curse him and kiss him and plead with all the Gods, named and unnamed, those too many to count, and those forgotten. “You would of been a good king, a great king,” He says between great gulps for air as his vision turns liquid and he can see only shadows through the tears.

“How could you leave me? How could you die? You were mine, and I was yours, and I would of loved you everyday of my life. I would trade all my wealth and power to bring you back, all of it.” He says to the cold, lifeless face. He reaches up, shaking, and he moves as it to touch his skin, his lips, but he hovers instead, dirt beneath his nails. Renly always hated getting dirt beneath his nails. “I would of gone to war for you, if only you had asked me too. I would of fought for you, died for you. That was to be my job, my choice. Knight of Flowers. You were meant to live forever. You were meant to be the greatest of Kings.”

He cannot crouch over him any longer, and he tries to wipe his tears, dirtying his angelic face. “You will always be my King. I will never love another. I will never marry. I will always be yours, Renly. You fool…you fool,” he manages, pressing his face against his chest, ignoring the blackened marks on the cloth now. No one else would see him, not after this. Renly Baratheon would never be alive again. He would never walk or breath or laugh.

He would never eat peaches or kiss Loras or make bad jokes. “Lord of Ham,” Loras mumbles hysterically through a sob, choking out a anguished laugh. He still felt solid and whole and real, but Loras knows he is gone. He is cold and dead and Renly Baratheon will never return to him. No amount of praying or pleading will change it and so he simply sobs. This loss, that he cannot share with anyone. They all lost a King, a great man, a leader, and a friend. But Loras lost the man he loved and it has broken his heart.

It seems like hours have passed as he sits and bargains and rages and weeps. He strokes Renly’s hair and he counts his lashes and he tries to remember the exact color of his eyes. The exact sound of his voice and his laugh. It is terrifying that in that moment, he can not summon them in perfect clarity. Renly is only alive so long as he is remembered and Loras gives himself a headache trying to recall the little moments of Renly Baratheon’s life. The line of his mouth when he was annoyed. His habit of fidgeting while in court. His expression when he found his release, and the look he gave Loras when they simply laid together.

He lifts Renly, dead weight in his arms, and he steels himself against the crippling sorrow. He carries him to the grave and lays him down. He kisses his forehead, pulls the cloth over his face and slides a Tyrell signet off his finger. He tucks it against Renly’s chest and he forces himself to leave his side. He needs to be buried, and Loras thinks that if he doesn’t do it now, he might be content to sit beside him until he too dies. He is silent now, numb, as he shovels the dirt over him. Growing Strong, he thinks, but at what cost? He watches as every shovel of the ground covers his king and he smooths the top of the grave when it is done, kneeling next to it.

“I will never forget you. They will sing songs of the beautiful Renly, tragically lost.” He promised, his voice like steel. “I loved you so much. They all did. Long live Renly Baratheon. Long live the King who should of been,” He whispers. Loras Tyrell buried Renly with his own hands, hands bloodied from blisters and dirty from the ground he dug up. He does not cry as he walks away. There is no room for sorrow any longer and even if there was, he isn’t sure he has the tears to spare any longer. There is no weakness, and he will not beg or plead anymore. There can be no sadness, only revenge. “Growing Strong,” he whispers to himself.


End file.
